


Being A Parent

by Pandamerium



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Fatherhood, Gen, Sickstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-06
Updated: 2012-07-06
Packaged: 2017-11-09 06:41:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/452462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pandamerium/pseuds/Pandamerium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being a parent is a big responsibility. You also knew that, even without all the attached responsibility, being a parent is extremely difficult on if itself. What was hardest on you was when your son got sick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Being A Parent

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is actually dedicated to my dad; he and I didn't have the best relationship when I was growing up. He had to work a lot on top of his own illnesses ever since I was eight years old. Twelve years and a lot of heartfelt conversations later, we're very close. 
> 
> I wrote this today while attempting to recover from a viral infection in my throat, which caused me to lose my voice last night. I was home alone all day while writing this; I could tell that my dad had a tough time going off to work this morning because I know what he really wanted to do was stay home and make sure I was taken care of. But there wasn't a lot he could do, and we both knew this, so I ushered him off to work before I curled up in bed and wrote this. I made sure to drink a lot of water, have some mild pasta, and take my medicine on time, so that he wouldn't worry. I'm still his little girl, and I'm hoping that he can be proud of me one day, too.

Being a parent is a big responsibility. As one yourself, you already knew that. You knew that it was your responsibility to provide for your child, to feed him and clothe him. You knew that it fell on you to make sure he did well in school and got a proper education. You knew it was your duty to raise your child to be the best that he could be, with confidence and pride, so that he could do anything within his power to live his life the fullest, to create his own happiness.

You also knew that, even without all that responsibility, being a parent is extremely difficult.

It was hard when your son was fussier than normal when it came to what was served at dinner. It was hard when you had to discipline him with groundings and the removal of certain privileges when he talked back too much or gave you immature teenage sass. It was hard when you had to raise your voice to him in situations that called for your authority (but you had never, in your life, hit your son).

What was hardest was when he got sick.

In your view, it was one of the worst feelings a parent had to deal with. Tears could be resolved with sympathetic and kind words, warm bear-hugs, sometimes even treating him to vanilla ice-cream. Falling grades could be remedied with some tutoring and extra effort on both your parts to make sure he understood before he went back to school the next day.

But there was no instant cure for when your son fell ill. There was no wand you could wave and rid him of the sickness. There was no spell or fast relief.

You called into the school to excuse him the second you awoke to hear those raspy coughs from his bedroom. You also excused yourself from work as well, because you were pretty certain the office could handle you being gone for a few days. Especially on account that your only child was sick in bed and you wanted to make sure he got better before you did anything else.

You knocked on his door before walking inside and sitting on your son’s bed. You checked his forehead and the back of his neck for fever; you took in his shivering and the dry, hoarse cough that forced its way out of his throat. You tucked him back in, and closed his blinds to keep the sun out.

You went to your drug cabinet and pulled out the codeine syrup for his cough, and some OTC cold medication with a painkiller and fever reducer in it, just in case. You got a glass of water, a spoon, and your pocket flashlight before going back to your son’s bedroom. The room was a little cooler since you had closed the blinds. You sat on the edge of his bed again, gently shaking his arm. “John.”  
  
He rolled over, opening watery blue eyes. “Da…d?”

It tore you apart to hear his voice so fragile and weak.

“I brought you some medicine. Can you sit up?”

At first, John looked like he was going to fall back asleep, drowsy as he was, but a harsh cough decided to wake him up, and with your help, he slowly sat up. He coughed again, harder and dryer. You set the medicine and water aside and pulled out your flashlight.   
  
You tapped his chin. “Open up.”

He didn’t comply right away, because he suddenly had another coughing fit, and you rubbed his back to help get it under control. He lifted his head and opened his mouth, tongue flat, and you shone the flashlight into his mouth. The coughing had inflamed the back of his throat; it looked physically scratched raw.

You turned off the flashlight and set it aside. John closed his mouth and covered it as he coughed again, shoulders trembling. You rubbed them gently with one hand, trying to convey that you were here for him, you were going to take care of him, that he was going to be all right. It sounded silly almost, but having once been a sick kid yourself, having that unspoken comfort helped get you through the days of sinus infections.

You broke two caplets out of the OTC medicine box and handed them to him with the glass of water. He tried to take the first pill, but his throat decided against it, and he ended up coughing the pill and the water over his sheets, gagging. Again you rubbed his back, and you told him it was all right, he was doing fine, that sometimes that happened. He had better luck with the second pill, and you didn’t dare ask him to try to get the first one in him. He downed the glass of water like a parched beggar in the desert, and you went to refill it in his bathroom (“I’ll be right back,” you told him).

You returned with that and a new blanket from the hallway closet, since the one he was using now had water on it and you knew that wouldn’t do.

You handed him the glass of water, which he now sipped, and you removed the wet blanket from his bed. You laid the new one over him, tucking in the edges like the meticulous man you were, and brought it up to pool in your son’s lap. He had already drank half the glass now, and his unfocused eyes were watching you (or at least attempting to).

He opened his mouth, as if about to say something, then closed it and coughed again. You sat back down beside him and helped him drink the rest of the water.   
  
“Were you hanging around anyone who was sick yesterday, son?” He opened his mouth to verbally reply, but you pat his head and shushed him. “Just nod or shake your head.”  
  
He looked as if he were about to shake his head, but then he slightly nodded, looking guilty. He probably thought a lecture was coming, since he was old enough to know better than to engage in physical contact with a sick person and had done so anyway.

You didn’t feel like giving him one. He felt miserable enough, and telling him now would make him feel worse (besides, it wouldn’t speed up his recovery). You figured he must’ve gotten it from one of his friends. John was one of those kids that would try to help, and you were proud of him for making so many friends in the past few years.

“Stay in bed for today and I’ll make you some soup after you take a nap,” you told him, helping him lay back down in bed. He rolled over on his side and curled up under the covers. He didn’t protest when you ran your hand through his hair. You repeated this notion a few times before pulling your hand back.

You had a tight limit on what you could do to help. You’d basically done everything by the book; John had medicine in him, he had water on his nightstand, tissues nearby in case his sinuses got clogged, plenty of blankets to keep him warm, and a cloth in case he got sweaty (or alternatively, one he could put in the cold glass of water in case he needed to cool down). You were just down the hall, but you really wanted to stick around so he wouldn’t have to get out of bed.

Perhaps later you could take John to the living room in a bundle of blankets and watch a movie together.

Being a parent had its hardships, and many times, they were difficult to look in the face.

But it was part of being that parent.

The best thing you knew you could do was to be there for your son when he needed you, until he went back to the happy, friendly, and energetic son that you knew he was.

You kissed his forehead, brought the blankets to his chin, and quietly stepped out, leaving his door ajar.

You checked up on him half an hour later; aside from the raspy coughs, his breathing sounded easier, and you smiled to yourself, relieved he was doing even just a little bit better.

Besides, doesn’t an Heir of Breath need to be able to breathe himself, too? 


End file.
